Blood
by RiskPig
Summary: Fic for 2nd Annual Rumbelle Secret Santa, for TriplePirouette. Prompt: Bram Stoker's Dracula


Belle could not bring herself to smile. So many colors and laughter, her peers surrounding her in a dance as old as time, and all she could think about was her father, pale and silent, wasting away in a bed at St. Hedwig's. But her betrothal party had been the talk of the season, and she could not afford to miss it.

She stood in the shadows of the balcony, turned away from the ballroom's warm glow, praying for the night to end. George, her fiance, returned with her shawl.

"You have been shivering all night." He took her by the chin to make her face him. She clenched her teeth, and nodded ever so slightly, letting him know she was listening. "If it will make you feel better, we can visit your father in the morning. We can bring a lunch. I'm sure ham and brandy will lift his spirits faster than broth and prayer."

She smiled then. George normally lacked charm or wit, but for her, he liked to make the effort. With another short nod, he wrapped her in the shawl, and offered his arm to escort her back inside. Everyone was still dancing, her absence hardly missed. He led her to the lemonade, pouring her a cup without needing to ask. When he handed her the glass, he held on, and she looked at him.

"Thank you, George," she said. And he finally left her alone.

Social intercourse ranked the lowest on her father's priorities. A single father, with a growing business, he did not have time to waste indulging her with tea parties and husband hunting. He needed a partner, and he chose to raise one.

Belle depended on Ariel Trichton, her childhood friend, to organize everything involving the wedding, including this party. She had felt lost, going over the plans, confused as to why an event that was supposed to be all about her could only function properly if everyone else was happy. Thankfully, Ariel, a spirited ginger, was willing to take over everything. At this moment, very moment, her dear friend had greeted all of her guests on her behalf, personally refilling wine glasses.

She tried to wave Belle over, but the brunette preferred to remain by the punch bowl. Not to be deterred, her friend rushed over to pull her away from the table.

"Sweetheart, there is someone you _must_ meet. You are going to _love_ him."

Easy to doubt. Ariel said that about everyone.

"Belle, this is Mr. Gold. He just bought the estate across the lake."

A lean gentleman offered her a gloved hand. She pondered on the fact that the glove was leather before looking at his face. He wore glasses, but the lenses were tinted, making it impossible to meet his gaze. Mr. Gold smiled, and she spotted a flash of gold in his teeth before he quickly closed his mouth.

"Mr. Gold, it's a pleasure."

"Oh, on the contrary. The pleasure is all mine, Miss...?"

"French. Belle French. This is actually my engagement party."

He chuckled softly, licking his lips. "Ah."

Ariel pat them both on the shoulder. "Glad to see you two becoming friends! I need to see to the guests, so I will leave you both to it. Mr. Gold, you _must_ tell her your stories. Good night!" And then she spun away, almost dancing on the balls of her feet.

Mr. Gold watched her leave, talking to Belle while his attention was directed elsewhere. "Your friend," he said, "is quite a curious creature."

"In more ways than one."

He did not ask her meaning, opting to change the subject. "When is the happy day, Miss French?"

"End of summer." Belle did not offer more, finding it rude to converse with a man steadfastly staring at another woman. She decided to pass the time by observing him. His clothes were well tailored, and made mostly from silk, with gold buttons. The more curious piece, however, was the large, opalescent stone on his left hand; ostentatious, but set in a dented gold band.

"I'm so sorry, what did you say?" He finally broke away from his distraction to look at her, and she felt the smallest bit of shame to have been caught staring.

"What is that?" She pointed to the ring, hoping his lenses prevented him from seeing her blush.

"Oh, this old thing." Gold played with the ring, fidgeting with the band. "A fascinating little trinket I found on one of my many travels."

"One of your stories?"

"It's a rather long one, I'm afraid."

"The night is still young." If asked outright, Belle would admit that she did not like Mr. Gold very much, but she always liked a good story.

He smiled widely, and something felt off; perhaps the gold tooth.

"Well then, Miss French, please walk with me."

She linked her arm with his, and they took a turn about the room. As she used him for support, she could smell his cologne: male spice and roses. Atypical, but pleasant. He told her of the stone: an opal, also known as dragonstone, and it was nothing compared to where he had been, or what he had seen. Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be charmed by him, and his Scottish brogue. His staring marked him a philanderer, but he was actually quite shy. He rarely looked at her when speaking, making himself familiar with the floor pattern, but when Belle interjected, he was all hers. His eyes remained covered, but pierced her anyway.

"You are... quite well read, Miss French," he whispered, leaning in closely, so only the two of them could hear each other.

"And that's all I am, I'm afraid."

He seemed taken aback by that, halting their walk, and licking his lips. "Whatever can you mean?"

"Well, Mr. Gold," Belle took him by the arm again, unwilling to lose such an interesting conversationalist, even for a moment. "There is little opportunity for a young woman to see the world, or have adventures. Books are the closest thing I have to the real thing."

"And you crave adventure?"

The violent yes bubbling within her was an urge she held back since childhood. To see, hear, and taste everything behind her small world, and even smaller circle of friends. Mr. Gold radiated everything she ever wanted: knowledge.

"More than anything," she replied.

He did not respond, instead he bowing to kiss her hand, his lips softly tracing the pattern of her knuckles. Heat stretched from her hand to her face, and her heart raced. She wanted to admonish him for the familiarity, but she could not bring herself to end whatever this exchange meant. Did she only now view Mr. Gold as a very handsome man? His smile sent a tingle down her spine, and she hoped he would kiss her again.

"If you wish to learn more of my travels, Miss French, please feel free to visit. It would be an honor."

* * *

Maurice French lay in a simple cot, jokingly moaning about the stern nuns and terrible food. His face lit up when his precious daughter arrived, but he smiled when he saw the heartful bounty in her picnic basket. They ate, laughing over mutual good company, lamenting the uncomfortable conditions normally found in hospitals.

When they finally calmed to a comfortable silence, Belle finally asked the question that had plagued them all since his return.

"What happened, Papa?"

She had whispered, but for his reaction, it might as well have been a shout. The teacup clattered onto the small plate, and his arm fell limp, allowing the china to slide out of his hands. Belle caught it in time, hot tea spilling over her hands, but she did not care. In seconds, her father aged, lines carving deeply into his face, and his breath quickened.

Kneeling by the bed, Belle took his hand, his cold flesh calming her burns. He was freezing, but she tightened her grip as she watched him fall apart. The bags under his eyes darkened, a contrast to his whitening pallor. Heart in her throat, Belle debated staying with him, to draw him out of panic, or call for a nurse. He looked so afraid, perhaps bringing someone in would only make it worse.

"Papa," she said a little louder, tugging on his arm when he looked away to the window. It was early afternoon with open blue skies; a beautiful day, with a perfect view - lush trees, and green grass. Bird songs echoed through the courtyard below, highlighting the heavy silence of the sickroom. A warm summer's day, and whatever happened to her father, made him so cold.

"Please, Papa. Tell me."

He continued staring out the window, and she feared he did not hear her. But then he returned her grip, drawing in a long, rasping breath before he spoke.

"Belle. My girl." He paused to swallow. "There are some things a daughter should never hear from her father. So I will not tell you. But there, in my pelisse," he nodded to the leather case on a writing desk. "I wrote letters to one of my associates, to document my transactions with von Stiltskin. Take them and... and let me rest. I'm tired."

Belle felt tired as well, wondering if she was catching the illness.

"Belle," he called to her, as she was walking out the door. "Please. When you read them... forgive an old fool."

"Of course, Papa.

"Always."

* * *

It rained for three days.

Belle had yet to visit Mr. Gold, or read her father's letters. When she returned home, she hid them under her pillow, hoping to get to them when she felt ready. She thought she wanted to know the truth, the reason behind her father's poor health, but to see his face... The dear man was terrified.

Ashley brought the afternoon tea to Belle's private parlor, wan and heavy-footed. She set the tray down with a distinct rattle, drawing Belle out of her reverie. Her maid reflected the weather, and she offered the girl the day off. But Ashley curtsied, assuring that she felt fine. Regardless, Belle informed her that she was done for the day, wishing to be left alone.

This week - this month! - had been very trying for everyone. Much credit was owed to Ariel, for her drive to organize the greatest wedding of the decade (on par with her own someday, of course) kept them all moving forward. But for now, as dusk approached, Belle closed off the world with a good book and candlelight, sitting by her wide bedroom window.

When the world finally fell to darkness, the oranges and pinks in the sky replaced by a tranquil indigo, Belle lost herself to the moon. The glowing orb pulled at her, calling her to fly, to let herself be free. Surely she was dreaming, for she smelled roses, and felt nothing but bliss, forgetting her father, and George. Forgetting that she could not fly.

She drifted from her room, and found herself following Ashley across the grounds. How had they come to here? Where was Ashley going? Belle tried to call to her, but the maid did not seem to hear her, gliding across the lawn and into the maze in a mindless gait.

The twists and turns passed without notice, and the scent of roses grew stronger. Yes, she was dreaming, wishing to be lost, wishing to find herself in the roses.

Ashley turned sharply around a corner, and Belle reached out her hand, but did not want to continue. She felt cold, cold all over, drowning in fear and in her father, her father was drowning in fear. But courage, one may only fly if they had courage.

She turned the corner, and she found a monster hiding under the smell of roses. The form of Mr. Gold found its way through her maze and her heart.

And he had his lips planted firmly on Ashley's throat.

She must have screamed. The roses ran down Ashley's neck and Mr. Gold was on her neck and she needed to get away. He heard her. And he looked at her.

He had a devil's eyes. Full of untold pain and regret.

He reached for her, and she plunged herself into darkness...

"...Miss French?"

Belle shook her head, embarrassed to be caught woolgathering. "I'm sorry?" The smell of roses.

"I asked if you would like to dance, Miss French." Mr. Gold was still reaching for her, resplendent in gold silks and a leather domino mask. She did not want to dance, not in her nightgown.

"But my dear, you are not in your nightgown," he said, smiling that wrong smile. Surely enough, when she looked down, she realized she wore a gown of gold silk, a perfect match to him. Happier, more willing, she took his hand at last, and he whisked her away to the dance floor. Everyone and no one was here, circling around them in mists and faded memories.

Belle watched her hand in his, mesmerized by the warmth in their connection. She had to ask him about the gloves and the warmth. "Is it burns?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The gloves. You're always wearing them."

Gold chuckled, his husky breath tickling her ear. She breathed deeply, smelling that addictive cologne. If he were to know her thoughts, he would call her a harlot, a wanton for wanting to feel his hands on her waist.

"The very thought of you burns me, my darling Belle. Dance the night away, and come find me in the morning..."

They twirled and twirled and twirled away from everyone and no one into the arms of a beautiful woman. She had dark hair piled high on her head, with thick curls loose along her neck. She had so much rage, and hated Belle so. But Belle wanted to keep looking at her, for she was so beautiful. She smelled of apples and loss, loneliness and a yearn for love choking her.

The beautiful woman sneered, and held her in a vice. "So," she said, her voice smoother than velvet, soaked in seduction. "This is the woman meant to replace us."

"Regina, stop." said another voice. Softer, and fairest. The new woman had hair blacker than ebony, and lips redder than blood. Her skin of alabaster draped across the first woman, Regina, holding her companion back. "Do not question our husband. Think of Milah. Think of Cora."

"That's precisely why I'm concerned, Snow." Snow. The second woman was named Snow. Her name fit her perfectly, for she blanketed Belle in a cold embrace, carrying her back to her bed.

"That man is allowed his distractions," said Regina. "That blonde one is merely an amusing snack. But this one... He will cast us out for her."

Belle wanted Regina to know she had nothing to worry about, but she could not speak. Her throat hurt, and she could not speak.

"Regina..." Snow sighed, and Belle could smell fear.

"No. I am taking care of this now. I will not allow some doe-eyed child take what's rightfully mine."

Her throat hurt, and she could not breathe. She scratched and cried and wished to _breathe..._

"_**Enough**_."

Belle woke up. Her hand flew to her throat, and found it hard to swallow, but she was certainly alive. A gust of morning chill filled the room, and she realized her window was left open.

* * *

Papa came home at last. Not fully restored, but strong enough to walk. He held his daughter tight, uncertainty tainting the loving embrace. She knew it was him, his fear of what she thought of him now. But Belle still did not read the letters.

Locking herself in her room once more, she read her father's scribbled words...

_Dove,_

_His castle is gargantuan, in every meaning of the word... I have gotten lost twice in the library... I should take Belle with me next time. Perhaps not. I'm afraid I'll lose her in there..._

_Dove, _

_One man should never be this wealthy. It would take three lifetimes to accrue so much, and I am only talking about the jewelry..._

_...von Stiltskin is so strange, but that is to be expected of a foreigner... I catch his accent changing, occasionally..._

Pages upon pages describing a daunting, dark castle with grand treasures within, as well as its eccentric owner. Mr. von Stiltskin was prone to excessive hand gestures and morbid quips, delighting in her father's discomfort. She read for so long, the sun had started to set, casting her room in a fiery glow. But she kept on, the words blending together, due to exhaustion, thankful that each letter grew shorter and shorter. The exchanges about the castle and foreign culture carried on until one sentence stirred her:

_I am afraid of von Stitlskin._

The next letter dated five days later, and he had written only a few sentences:

_The women, Dove, oh the women. I see them every night, and I know I am not dreaming. I kiss them, and hold them until dawn, even with knowing they come to me at their master's request. They are going to kill me, but I cannot stop._

The next one was harder to read, his script barely legible.

_He is reading them Regina drains the most and I cannot fight her anymore Damn that whore to hell_

_He still has bell's minture. he is after my dater_

_...blood always wanting my blood_

Roses.

Belle shot up from the bed, immersed in darkness save for the single candle lit by the window. She did not remember lighting it...

Running to the window, mind racing, an itch on the back of her neck told her to make sure that last night was a dream. That Ashley was -

Ashley was wandering outside, veering towards the maze.

Belle had no time to change, throwing a robe over her shift, hoping that she wouldn't be too late. The path felt the same as before: aimless, gently guided by the moonlight. The smell of roses returned, and she realized that they were never roses at all. The smell was hot and metallic, and very powerful.

She could see the corner from her dream, and she took a deep breath before taking that last step.

The smell had been blood all along.

Rivulets rolled down Ashley's neck, Mr. Gold lapping it up like a wild beast, snarling as he feasted. The darkness threatened to overtake Belle again, but she could not allow it, not here. She took a slow step back, but she misstepped, and her elbow ran across the tall hedge.

The beast heard her, his head snapping in her direction, dropping his victim without care. He came for her, feet moving so quickly, they did not touch the ground. As the darkness took her at last, a single tear rolled down Belle's cheek, and she prayed that her death would come quickly.

* * *

"Belle..."

Damn, another dream. She stretched her body, from her hands to her toes before rolling onto her side to burrow deeper into the covers; it was awfully cold. The fire must have gone out, but it was too late to wake Ashley, she could wait a few more hours.

"Belle."

No. No, please let her still be dreaming...

"_Belle._"

She opened her eyes, whispering curses to herself, wishing for this night to just end.

Mr. Gold stood by the window. He blended so well into the darkness, she would have thought him a shadow, had he not spoken.

"Belle, I would have come sooner, but you see, the light..."

Could he really be here, or was she dreaming again? He stood before her, the virile drifter with the devil eyes. Something about him felt the same from her dream, tremulous and surreal. His lips were colored a deep red, almost black, and when he spoke, he bared his teeth. With new context, she discovered why his smile bothered her so. It was not the gold tooth, no, that distracted from the real issue.

The man had fangs.

"You're not really here, are you?" she asked. She hoped.

He kneeled by her side, taking her hand in his, and a shock of cold rammed to her soul. He wasn't wearing his gloves.

"It's too soon," he whispered. "But I had to see you."

"Where is Ashley?"

"Asleep. She will be fine."

"You were drinking her blood. I did not dream that."

"Yes."

Belle would not run, but she did not want him near her. Wrapping a blanket around herself, she crawled away from him, stepping off the opposite side of the bed. She was panting heavily, from fear and the cold, and searched for the fireplace.

There wasn't one. This wasn't her room.

Looking to the window, she realized this wasn't even her house.

"Where am I?"

"My home. Our home."

Her breath caught, unwilling to comprehend those two simple words, but she was no fool. The way he looked at her without knowing her, spoke volumes of the darkest romance. He wanted her the simple way a man wanted a woman, and what scared her, what she knew after that night she met him, was that she wanted him, too.

In this room, she forgot everyone. Her father, George, those dark, beautiful women. What mattered to her now, in this space with only him, was one question:

"Why me?"

In a blink, Mr. Gold towered over her, holding her hand onto his exposed chest. Flesh she found so cold before burned her, reviving her to a state she had not felt in quite some time.

"Belle, my darling," he said, his deep voice rippling down her back, trailing heat to a place she dared not think. "I have been dead for longer than I wish to count. And all for nothing. Until I met you."

If she were a lesser woman, Belle would have swooned, but a small stab of anger interrupted the moment. "What about the other women? Regina and Snow?"

"Distractions. A lonely man's attempt to fill the are gone, now."

"And Ashley?" Belle whispered, holding her breath. The weight of her question hanged between them, their future depending on his answer. He cleared his throat and looked down at the floor.

"You need not concern yourself with Miss Boyd. She has nothing to do with us." His voice, harder than steel, wavered at the end, betraying his emotions. "I... Belle, I needed her. Do you understand? She will be rewarded for her sacrifice."

"And me? How shall my sacrifice be rewarded?"

His strong hands cupped her face, and then his lips descended over hers, his tongue teasing access to her mouth. The eruption was instantaneous, her heart and soul melting into him, never wanting this to end. In his kiss she could taste his promise of what she seeked - adventure.

His kisses marked a path down her neck, imprisoning her with passion, his arms holding her close. When she thought she could take it no more, his fangs sank deep into her nape, tongue stroking her pulse to soothe the pain.

She gasped, first from the pain, but then an unfamiliar pleasure washed over her, her arms wrapped tightly around him, trying to pull him closer.

He held her back, stopping his feeding to pick her up cradling her to his chest, to lay her on the bed. Her body was on fire, neck sore from the wound, but she never wanted this to end. She watched him bite into his own wrist, and held it out to her. He cupped her head to nurse her with his life force, like she was a kitten compelled to drink milk from a saucer.

* * *

When they buried Belle's body, no one could hear the priest over their weeping. Tears nurtured the grass at their feet, and the flowers over her grave. Her father in particular could not stand unaided, still weak from the illness.

Her loved ones stood vigil for most of the day, unwilling to let go of the light in their lives. But as the sun set, the groundskeeper ushered them away, muttering superstitions of letting new spirits rest.

But what they left behind would never rest.

A short man in tinted glasses mounted himself onto the gravestone, giggling, and waiting.


End file.
